


Masquerade

by Harpalyce



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Author's Favorite, Drama, Gen, Multi, author honestly has no idea what to put here., long rambling epic, m rating sadly not for sex, not as dead as it seems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harpalyce/pseuds/Harpalyce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A redeemed Vader strives to reconcile his past actions while trying to save Luke from the Emperor's grasp, and helping the Rebel Alliance... And struggles to simply survive. Post-RotJ AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Making a Note Here

Leia Organa knew the symbol - the ebony palm-print that was on the woman's pin. It was oddly unfamiliar and tiresomely familiar at the same time, and she was still unsure of what the organization exactly did, but they had declared themselves trustworthy enough to warrant a visit. Their guide seemed pleasantly innocent: a schoolteacher who was not quite unwilling to expound upon why she was caught up in such a thing.

"...Although it's true much of Prince Xizor's fortune was donated to the Black Hand, to say that we are an extension of the Black Sun is untrue," she explained patiently in a way that was simultaneously completely unhelpful and helpful at the same time. "We have worked towards a singular goal since our creation, one in perfect accordance with the Rebel Alliance's. Whatever friction is unfortunate but expected..."

Leia said nothing, but she glanced over as one of the bodyguards leaned over to whisper to another. "What she means is, this Black Whatever is the thing that's been stealing all the money out from under us." His grumbling was cut off as she glared at him, but she couldn't help the small sigh escaping from her nose.

It had been a hellish few months, and really, the Rebel Alliance's regular benefactors pulling their money out to divert it to the Black Hand was very nearly the last straw. What was supposed to be a glorious victory and Endor turned into a nightmare. Luke had been agitated the night before, mumbling something about not being able to find someone, distracted in a way that unnerved her; truthfully Leia had pushed his last words out of her mind, as there were too many other things to panic about than her parentage. The battle was still a technical victory, as they had destroyed the half-built Death Star, even if the Emperor was able to get away safely on the Executor as they scrambled to salvage the situation. That was recoverable. Luke being dragged out in front of the next Imperial rally was not.

She had to tell himself that the smile on Luke's face was forced, and the rumors about him being coerced into such a situation were true. But it was such bad news that the odd lack of a usual player on the cosmic stage was hardly realized, even though it had been months, up until this point.

Leia shook her head a little, her intricate braids hitting the back of her neck as she looked back to the Togruta leading them on. The tall woman was still talking as if the entire group were listening devotedly, and it made Leia sympathize a little with the children in her classroom. "It was a very complex arrangement, but fortunately a few weapons dealers groups were sympathetic - the ones that design for you - so as you can see, here is the ion cannon I was telling you about..." Leia rolled her eyes slightly as they stepped into a large hangar bay. It was one that was familiar, one she knew; outside the trees of Yavin were still thick and seedlings had started to sprout on where they had cleared. The dust was new, though, as was the massive tractor beam mount and the ion cannon that seemed terribly out of place - the scorch marks on the wall from the cannon blast, however, seemed to make sense... and she couldn't quite make it out - there was an outline...

"As you can see, we are sorry for the inconvenience that came with clogging the channels with rumors of Skywalker coming back here, but it worked well enough. The tractor beam is industrial grade, and was used to drag his fighter in here after it was disabled by the ion cannon blast, then another made capturing him possible. The ion cannon is salvaged from the one installed on Hoth. I am sure the Rebel Alliance does not mind the Black Hand borrowing it, as it were, and we will be happy to return it." the schoolteacher said, continuing to talk. Leia listened quietly, eyebrows furrowing.

Clearing her throat a little, she looked back over to the tall, serene-looking Togruta woman. "Excuse me. Miss... what was your name, again?"

She smiled gently. "Tano. Miss Tano."

"Right, right." The outline looked too familiar, she couldn't stop staring at it, and there was something deeply unnerving about it, but the Togruta's serene smile pushed whatever agitation out of her mind somewhat. "You still haven't told us exactly  _who_  all of this effort was to capture."

"Oh, I thought it would be obvious," the Togruta said with a slow blink. "This operation was against Darth Vader."

For a moment Leia, and her personal guard of soldiers, stood perfectly still. "...Vader," she repeated hollowly, eyeing the outline on the wall in the scorch marks the ion cannon blast had made.

"Yes. The costs were phenomenal, and roughly fifty-three died in the battle, another three hundred or so injured," she said calmly before she grinned in a way that made the hairs on the back of Leia's neck stand up - an almost sadistic expression, triumphant in a way she had only seen a few times before. "The operation was, I believe they said, a  _huge success._ "

* * *

 

And the next few months were followed by the same sort of eerie calm. The Empire would not admit it, but it became knowledge nonetheless. It was a boost to morale that almost made up for the Rebel's favourite son, Skywalker, apparently turning to the arms of the Emperor, but Luke's stutteringly smiling face coupled with lack of words and lack of true action was a pale substitute for what had been before.

To say he was mourned would be inaccurate. It was more a collective sigh of relief, even within the Empire itself. Few planets outright celebrated, but none of them truly mourned.

And Vader's name was moved from list to list, from the missing that were expected home to the missing who were possibly still breathing to the missing that were merely euphemistic about death. It was a slow and subtle rot, but it nonetheless did a steady trickle of damage - without Vader, it was all too easy to see the Empire as a toothless old dog, tethered to Coruscant and howling at the Outer Rim..

* * *

 

"Oh, you're awake."

Light. Bright light, so bright it made his eyes water. He hadn't seen light like this in years - how many years? So bright - where was he, and who was that voice -

Some alien silhouette, he couldn't see which one - the light was too bright, burning into his eyelids - a choked splutter -

"Don't try to talk, I haven't connected your larynx up yet with the rest. Better than the best gag, right?" The voice was hoarse with age, and a small tinge of recognition twitched at the back of his mind - perhaps it was familiar, his head was swimming too badly. "And don't try anything else. That cage up there? Three ysalamiri. They make pretty good pets, actually. I think one's about to have pups or something, too." The alien's voice was oddly soothing, but not enough that he didn't try to wiggle out of the restraints.

Abruptly, his arm - or the piece of machinery he had identified as 'his arm' for the last several years - waved in his face as the alien wagged it at him like an old housewife. "What did I tell you about moving? Don't move! I don't want to give you more sedative yet. You're tricky to dose, you know?" He blinked slowly at this. "Don't give me that look. You've only died three times."

He blinked a little more slowly as that phrase just climbed the charts on his mental lists of  _Things I Never Want To Hear, Ever_.

"First time it was just because of the ion cannon blast, second time was a tiny mistake with the dosing of the sedative because she didn't actually get I was joking with my little 'as much as a krayt dragon' comment, and then the third doesn't really count at all because it was just taking you off one life support system to another." A wrinkled hand gestured at all of the softly beeping bits of machinery around him, and as he gave up struggling against the bonds to fall limp against the table again, he felt distinctly nervous even with the haze from the drug clogging his mind.

The alien shook his mechanical arm in the air again, apparently content to talk to him even as she was cloaked in shadows. "See this? Terrible craftsmanship. Shoddy work! Just terrible! Probably a rush job, but technology has made such leaps and bounds." She set the black armored thing down to pick up what at first glance could easily be a real human arm, only instead of blood spilling out there was a tangle of wires. "We're going to have things done  _right_  around here. Yes." As if she had forgotten about him momentarily, she ducked down out of his hazy range of vision, humming something incredibly off-tune.

"This. This is what you have to remember." She held a small vial of clear liquid aloft. "Taken you months to get it out of your system. I wonder if you remember the files for it?" He blinked slowly, straining, and she laughed. "No, no, of course not. Don't want you to know your own poison. But you don't have the Emperor in your head anymore, do you?" She bopped the vial against his forehead, and he blinked instinctively as his eyebrows knitted in frustrated worry. "Mind control serum. The jewel of the old Republic, pulled through just in time to try and control the Jedi menace... hah! Jedi menace. But then Order 66 took care of that, didn't it?" She shook the small vial around with a snort, her wrinkled paws only somewhat visible in the contrast of harsh light and deep shadow. "Took care of every Jedi but one." He winced a little as she bopped him on the head again before she started to laugh.

The meaning went past him then, but it trickled down into his thoughts as he occasionally bobbed towards consciousness before being dragged down again. Where had he spent the last years? Reason answered  _the Empire_  or specifically  _the Executor_  but his gut instinct yelled  _in captivity_...

And he felt as if he should care, because he was aware of a battle that raged within him, Light against Dark. But all he could seem to do was sit back and watch with glassy eyes, like a spectator in the stands of a game that had gone on too long. If his subconscious could have ordered another box of oversalty fried food to stuff its proverbial face with, he was pretty sure that would have been the outcome, but the ball went back and forth between the two players in such mesmerizing spirals. He was too tired to act - to cheer for either team - he could just watch...

Thoughts drifted in and out among the black, but that was the only time he saw his captors - at least, for any extended period of time. There was, he remembered, another haze of over-bright light, and a broad smile. "Success," the old alien cackled to herself, and then the shadow dragged him back down again, and instead of struggling against it he submitted passively to the riptide.


	2. Staircase Wit

And then the shadows all slipped away like chalk drawings on a sidewalk, and the first thing that greeted him was the smell of the sewer he had been left lying in. He grimaced, blinking dizzily - not a smell he was used to, when he had been spoiled with clean filtered air... It was not as painfully bright, and his head was filled with a rush of information, more alive - it took him a long slow moment to realize that it was the Force, speaking to him again, unmuffled by a ysalamiri over his head.

This realization did not halt the dizzying nausea as he tried to get up. At that movement, a small holovid player turned itself on. As the room spun, it chimed a cheerful company themesong at him before a professional-looking Twi'lek woman smiled at him, her image flickering. "Congratulations on your purchase of a Ziencorp prosthesis! After larger installations you may experience some side effects such as disorientation, dizziness, nausea -"

He didn't hear the rest, already gagging in dry heaves into the corner as his brain struggled to rectify the sensations from his new legs with reality. But the recording chattered on, and when he flopped back down with a defeated groan, he could hear it again. "...rash, and occasionally severe allergic reaction. If you should experience any of these symptoms for more than three days, please contact a health professional immediately." There was a little click as the holovid forwarded itself to another chapter, and the Twi'lek smiled brightly. "With your Ziencorp prosthesis, you'll get to experience greater mobility, freedom, and enjoyment of life -"

It was then that he managed to get control of himself long enough to do what any sane and rational person would do: pick up the holovid player and throw it away from him as hard as he could. The voice squeaked and skipped before the electronics finally died, and he let himself flop back down onto the bitterly cold steel plates of the floor. He felt like hell, that much he was sure of, and it took a long while of fighting that nausea before he stood.

It stank, and it was too loud and too bright, and he ached all over. He was not used to seeing in so many colors or without an information overlay, and it was deeply disorienting, but he somehow managed to pull himself to his feet. Even though his eyes were watering, he managed to catch his own reflection, and was startled by it.

He was not expecting to see it - blue eyes peering back at him, the messy hair falling into his face, the facial hair that had grown over several months. As if he were a child finding a mirror, he reached out to brush his hands on the chrome, not understanding, thinking it was some sort of trick until he noticed that the flesh underneath was still worn and scarred and the thick rope of scar tissue still sat by his eye. It was impossible, it was a miracle, it was not the black mask he had been staring at for so long.

When he gave a surprised laugh he startled himself, the sound was so very foreign to him. There was the absence of sound, too, he noticed - no steady wheeze, and to his amazement, if he tried he could hold his breath and listen to the blood rushing in his ears and the drumbeat of his heart. He laughed again almost instinctively at the joys he had been deprived of that all others took for granted, at suddenly being freed from an iron prison, and in unthinking joy he turned to run for the sake and joy of running -

It was a few seconds after he found himself flat on the ground again that he considered perhaps patience was a virtue. So he stood up shakily, walking in a patient circle as his vision continued to clear and the details of the world around him stopped being so incredibly overwhelming. The pack left by him became clear, and with a newfound sense of balance he rummaged through it. A second holovid player was obvious, a small disc that he pulled out and held in a hand.

A click - the track was only audio, but he recognized the voice as the wisened alien that he had never seen in the shadow. "If you're hearing this, you're probably awake. Either that, or you've been mugged and some street rat has got your stuff." She gave a braying laugh. "All you need is in here. A few credits, a few medical supplies, some military rations - a little bit of irony, you see - and of course, other important things." He blinked at her vagueness but didn't dwell on it as the recording rambled on. "There's a sample vial of the liquid that kept you under his thumb for so long. Use it wisely. And more importantly, advice. You can't afford to be proud down here; you don't want people to know who you are. You aren't important anymore." Again, that laugh. "You're worthless. You're scum. Welcome back to Coruscant."

And then the recording clicked off.

He waited for it to come. The persistent anger had always been with him - it had been such a driving force that without it, he seemed as pleasantly naked as without the armor, and just as disoriented. Finally, he staggered up, sighing and looking again at his reflection. Not only had they done a courtesy to him of regenerating his skin enough to grow hair, but apparently they had decided to let him figure out his own hairstyle. For the moment, he thought he looked wild enough to be forgetful.

For a few long, dizzy moments, he stared up into the perpetually clear sky of Coruscant, his thoughts muddled and disjointed. He followed the crowd as if herd mentality would save him.


	3. Along the Watchtower

The Coruscant WeatherNet had apparently decided - to make the weather a bit more interesting in early spring - to introduce a set of morning showers. He remembered the memo when, as he followed the crowds, they all pressed themselves against the awnings of the buildings, cowering from the light drizzle as if it would all melt them. He couldn't force himself to be as afraid of it as they were, even if he perhaps had more reason to be, and instead of pulling up the coat over his head he simply continued walking on the same path that he had been.

He was aware of how clouded his mind still was, a paradoxical sort of situation, but somehow freeing as well. It was hard to keep his thoughts directed towards anything loftier when animal needs kept dragging him back. The heavy, greasy scents of the street food make his mouth water; the light still seemed to be too bright, making him squint. It was too easy to be sluggish and sleepy, to not fight it any more than he had to. Being locked away from the little mundanities made them seem like some sort of delicacy to finally enjoy them, and so he let himself smile as he shivered at the rain running down from his hair. The water snuck underneath his collar, tracing along his spine – just like Padmé's fingers had done, to tease him, to tell him with a half-a-second gesture that he was being too serious.

And that was enough to clear some of the haze from his mind, even as his mind scrambled to drift back into the reality of the present. Waiting for the regulation eighteen minute rainshower to be over, he found a patch of wall, dry and hidden by a cantina's awning. It was distractingly novel to again feel the touch of his fingers – or a prosthesis accurate enough to fool himself into thinking of it as  _his fingers_  – pressed against his face.

 _Pull yourself together_ , he chastized himself before pausing, obviously talking to himself but unsure of what name to use.

He grimaced. That was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? Anakin, or thinking of himself as Anakin, anyway, died on Mustafar. But Vader was as much the armor as it was him – or had he been the armor? It made his head ache. Either way, that fascinating glimpse of his own reflection sealed it: Vader did not have clear blue eyes, just a mask. And Skywalker – _Skywalker_  had become synonymous with Luke -

He drew in a sharp breath. It was a name that stung almost as much as Padmé's. Hiding his eyes from the light, he took in another deep breath, momentarily distracted by being able to control his own breathing, before letting his hand drop.

The rainshower was letting up; he stepped out with the crowd. Sun-dogs, scattered fragments of rainbow, shone and multiplied themselves in the reflective skyscrapers towering above them before finally disappearing. The haze still hung closely to his mind even as he tried to shake it off, and apathy guided his footsteps before he fully realized what he was doing. The crowd, at least, seemed to be going somewhere. Damp and shivering, he followed.

The courtyard broke open the oppressive space of the lower city so dramatically it made his eyes water. To say there was a crowd was an understatement; it was an oppressive crush of people. But the Imperial pennants had been unfurled from the holoscreen towering overhead, and the echoing anthem was blaring loudly from the speakers. It wasn't an unusual sight, he had long since gotten used to the idea that the Emperor subscribed to the bread-and-circuses method of governing. A Moff – which one, he couldn't remember – appeared on screen. The haze kept him from remembering the man's name, but he still grimaced: the Imperial officer was shrew-faced, eyes small and beady. A detail drifted up, unbidden: he knew the man mostly from a clandestine peek at his internal intelligence file, which was primarily centered around his continuing obsession with prepubescent girls. Just the thought brought a grimace to his face. Whatever this was about, it had to be important enough to justify giving such slime actual screen-time.

The screen's view panned away, showing a new memorial – perhaps in one of Coruscant's upper squares – obsidian gleaming black. It took him a moment of rubbing at his eyes to actually concentrate enough to focus on the echoing words.

"...and above all, we dedicate this memorial to a loyal soldier of the Empire: more than soldier, perhaps. One could even call him the spirit of the Empire, partially, beyond our beloved, illustrious Emperor himself, of course. It is with great sadness that we recognize his death..."

Pawing at his eyes again, he squinted at the display. It was an impressive statue, in a modern style, jagged and built of sharp edges. The outline seemed almost familiar.

"But spirits, of course, cannot really die. We recognize this... iconic soldier to still be protecting and guiding the Empire, and all her loyal citizens..."

With a snort, he recognized it: the statue was supposed to be  _him_ , the jagged angles accumulating into the helm he had associated with himself for so many years. It came a second before the actual announcement: "And so, with great sadness, we dedicate this memorial to Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith."

The crowd around him clapped politely. Nobody seemed enthused one way or the other, but merely seemed to be making noise out of contractual obligation.  _He_ , meanwhile, gaped in open disgust. Was  _this_  really all that he was worth, a tacky memorial and a half-assed eulogy delivered by a pedophile? Not that he was absent of the same disgust everyone else seemed to hold for him; he admitted dizzily he was a wretched creature. But  _this!_  He didn't expect sympathy, not by any means. But perhaps maybe a roster of the battles he had single-handedly won, a nod towards the effect he had on turning the universe to the Empire's favor – at least it deserved a little more than a perch for the hawkbats on some square. The indifference made him grit his teeth. He would have been happier with an open celebration, at least then he could ask them to pass the champagne and celebrate alongside them – but faces were neutral, even  _bored_.

Unfortunately, as the camera panned away, he completely forgot about his own irritation.

The crowd actually began to cheer, a gradual but steadily rising sound as they actually seemed to care about what they were seeing. The Emperor was there, and slowly, he rose from his throne – a rare sight – to gesture outwards, greeting the people. It was a perfectly manufactured cult of personality. The lower-city crowds, straight from the slums, screamed as if it were an honor to catch the gaze of a holoprojection. His withered, bone-white hand gestured out, and another figure stepped into the camera's gaze; the crowd went wild again. The pleasant blue eyes were glazed-over, a deadness having stepped in to replace the innocent light; the collar of the shirt he wore was almost too tight, grazing just underneath his chin, making him hold his head stiffly upwards like a dog with a choke collar. Something had stolen the young man's youthful charm and replaced it with dark circles ringing his eyes and slightly sunken cheeks. The smile was more like a grimace, forced and weak. But the crowd still cheered.

The rising horror constricted his throat, and the mist fell away from his thoughts abruptly. Letting himself note the effects of the drug withdrawal was no longer a luxury he could afford. Immediately his mind was racing from possibility to possibility: how could the Emperor have constructed such a trap? It was impossible and simultaneously very probable – the boy was young, gullible, foolhardy in that blind hope -

The Emperor started to speak, and the crowd fell into silence. Unfortunately that was the exact moment that his mouth seemed to finally work itself out of frozen horror to scream out the only thing he could think of, so unbidden he almost didn't realize it was his own voice.

" _LUKE!_ "


	4. Kismet

And suddenly there were dozens of eyes on him, staring him down.

_Oh, kriff._

Normal, loyal citizens of the Empire did not interrupt while their Emperor was speaking. Nor did they scream out the personal, first name of the Emperor's new right hand. And they certainly didn't do it in such an anguished tone.

As much as he winced at the wave of self-loathing that hit him, he also recognized the gesture of someone in the crowd – lifting his arm up to speak into the comlink hidden underneath his long sleeve. Their eyes locked, and he realized, even as he backed slowly away, stumbling into the crowd, that he had been spotted. There was going to be no such thing as an easy escape, now. Bone-white lines shoved their way through the crowd, converging on him, the stormtroopers already holding their blasters close at the ready.

For a tense moment they simply stared, the undercover officer waiting patiently. But he still leapt away, making the first move, and the officer's roar ripped through the crowd: "HALT!" A woman gave a shriek as he shoved her out of the way, and another more solid scream as the bolt from the officer's pistol hit the shoulder of another bystander. The stormtroopers moved from a calm walk to a jogging march, using the butts of their rifles to shove people out of the way, cutting a path through the crowd as swiftly as a torrent of rain gouges out riverways in soft mud.

 _Fantastic, Anakin! Wonderful! Not even awake for two hours and already you have half the Empire after you_. He quirked his eyebrows at himself even as he ran, wondering if the half-instinctive mental chiding decided it. Or perhaps it was simply that  _Anakin_  was the one to make atrociously stupid mistakes, not  _Vader_. The irritation at not really solving anything in the problem of what to call himself made him almost miss the wonderful, sheer joy of being able to run again.

The stormtroopers burst through the crowd at last, and the occasional shot from the officer was suddenly joined by a torrent of blaster fire. Gritting his teeth, he leaped into a nearby alleyway; there was only so long that he could dodge each blast. It at least gave him enough time to sling off the backpack and dig around in it before, still disoriented and reeling, he remembered shoving his lightsaber into his pocket. It seemed far too clumsy and large, now. But it was there, solid in his hands, flickering on and painting the alley with a bloody light.

"You two, go in first. We'll follow. We want this man apprehended, do you understand? Preferably alive but it's not too much to trouble about -" The officer's voice, clear and commanding, echoed its way up, and he dropped into a ready fighting stance.

A sharp pain was still clawing at his temples and his mind was clouded in disarray – but his body remembered.

Up, across, down; sweeping away the blaster bolts. Every one struck back true, the stormtroopers gagging and gasping as they were hit with the bolts from their own guns. It was a suicidal gambit, pouring into the alleyway. They didn't expect to come face to face with a Jedi – a Sith? - a  _lightsaber_  and a man wielding it.

The officer filed in last, but held his fire. Instead, eyes wide, he raised his arm to scream into his comlink. He never got the words out. The brilliant crimson blade arced out, tumbling through the air, to strike, before returning to its owner's hand.

The silence was palpable as he sunk back, eyes wide, listening to himself pant. Having to stop and catch his breath was novel, if a bit more inconvenient than he remembered. Except for the officer's body, it looked simply like the stormtroopers had been outgunned – but the self-cauterizing wounds would give him away, he knew, and there was little time... Fortunately, the alleyway ended in an obvious garbage chute, or rather, a chute surrounded by bagged piles of trash that people had been too lazy to actually dispose of properly. It took a moment for him to recognize his own voice – a gruff, low, but unadulterated tone – as almost reflexively, he stated to the officer's lifeless, slack face: "Sorry. I'm sure you'd understand." His head still swam as he lifted the man's body with the Force, nearly dropping it in surprise as he realized, with the same shock that coursed through him at hearing his own voice, that he was not accessing the Force through his usual rage. Pity, perhaps – regret? No, not that strong. The absence of rage, just like the absence of the mask, was disorienting and startling enough.

But it didn't distract him too much; it was still only a few seconds until he closed the chute door and slammed the button next to it. Rusted machinery rumbled deep within the wall, mechanically chewing and processing.

Then it was on to more pressing problems.

The red eye of the security camera was still bearing down on him, clicking and focusing on the movement. It was blind luck – or intuition, he supposed, but for now, luck would do. The alleyway was still part of the old system, video stored in a databox until manual collection instead of immediately going to holo-relay. By the time he managed to precariously stand on one of the collection bins to reach the camera, he could already hear security sirens in the distance; the way the metal peeled back, glowing, was not subtle in the least. But the tangle of wires was easy to reach, a gordian knot he untangled with his lightsaber, as he grabbed the data box and quickly tossed it into his bag.

"Officer Ieyei?" The sirens had stopped outside the alley's entrance, and now, gun raised, another two stormtroopers stalked forward. "Officer Ieyei, please resp-" The second jumped away, startled, as his foot ran into the helm of one of the fallen bodies. "Oh." It was a mechanical sort of sound, all dull and numb shock. "Oh – oh. I, ah - " The stormtrooper paused, letting his gun drop a bit while simultaneously clutching it closer, as if it were merely a talisman to ward off harm instead of a weapon.

The carnage was enough of a distraction for him to step away from where he had vaulted onto the rooftop, breathing a sigh of relief before running, then jogging, then halting to a walk as he met the dispersing crowd on another walkway. Head down, he shifted the pack on his shoulders to feel the weight of the databox pressing against his back. As the crowd pressed around him, he finally gritted his teeth, letting himself get lost in his own thoughts:  _You were lucky, this time. Next time you can't count on such luck._

He did not realize that he had not been lucky enough to notice the Rebel Alliance-planted holo-relay in the tangle of wires.


	5. Gate within a Gate

Either someone was playing at being eccentric, or the WeatherNet relay was broken, because for the rest of the day, every three hours, there was another eighteen minute long rainshower. When the second one came, he had huddled under another awning after purchasing a lunch from a street cart – purposefully choosing the one that seemed to violate as many health and safety decrees from the Empire as possible. He wasn't quite sure if it was rebellion, or his idea of living dangerously. Either way, mystery meat wrapped in cheap pan-fried bread had never tasted so delicious.

Even as he let the crowds push him along, he was awake – sobered, perhaps – and thinking. As much as his stomach twisted itself into knots, he knew that there were priorities. He could not save Luke if he was dead of starvation somewhere in the lower city, and he certainly couldn't storm the Imperial palace now – it would simply be suicide.

Trying to figure out where to start was overwhelming.

He understood, now, why the voice in the message left to him delighted so much in the fact that he was now  _scum_. The word made him recoil, mostly because he knew it was applicable. For most of his life he had been used to being special – a Jedi, then a Sith Lord. He had commanded those beneath him, but most of all, he had been confident that he would at least have something to eat and somewhere to rest. Even as a child, his mother had taken care of that. But the worry about such basic things was startling to him, anxiousness bitter in his mouth as he gritted his teeth and thought.

There was no possibility of trying to get any higher than the lower city slums. He needed to be invisible, wholly and completely, not friendly with whatever private security force the apartment block had paid for. It was dark and oppressive, the rank underbelly of the city fragrant and smothering. As he pulled his jacket closer to himself, he reflected how much he missed his cloak: at least that he could properly wrap around himself.

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he nearly walked by, but the Force, agent of Fate, has a strange way of making sure what should be noticed is, indeed, noticed. Sparks sizzled through the air and he jumped aside, though the arc of electricity ended as quickly as it came. A run-down, patched and tired looking house seemed to blend in seamlessly with the rest of the dismal row, but this one had a frustrated looking woman staring down a malfunctioning piece of equipment. It spluttered another few sparks, and she pawed at her grey hair. The house  _also_  had a sign advertising rooms for rent.

"Blasted thing!" Her voice was shrill, and as he drew closer, he examined her a little more closely. She seemed about as innocuous as a person could be. More importantly, the machine in front of her – a water recycler – was a more interesting problem. The bit of machinery groaned, and he perked up, mind already leaping to figure out the tangle of electronics.

"You look as if you could use some help." His own voice still made him uncomfortable, unused to how it sounded. Of course, it was also more difficult than he remembered to be _friendly_ , much less nonchalant about it.

But it was good enough for the old woman to give a relieved smile. "Oh, yes, very much so. I don't suppose you know anything about water recyclers?"

"A thing or two. I used to live on Tatooine." He forced himself to keep smiling even as inwardly, he winced.  _Don't come down with a terminal case of honesty_ , he chided himself as he stepped forward.

"Tatooine?"

"A desert planet, out in the outer rim. You wouldn't know it." He pasted on his best smile as she ooh-ed and nodded her head politely. Already his mind was trying to tackle both problems at once. At least the mechanical one was obvious: a simple short circuit. Power would just have to be rerouted.

But spinning a good story was a completely different task. To his chagrin, Obi-Wan's voice floated up in his thoughts:  _A Jedi always tells the truth – just, perhaps, not the whole truth, and the truth from a certain point of view._  As much as he hated to admit it, he already knew that would be the tactic which would save him – just enough of the truth to be believable, and not any more.

But she was offering the spanner out to him, wrinkled face drawing into a worried frown. "Do you think you could fix it, perhaps? I'm afraid I don't have very much money, but..."

"Of course I can. It's quite fine." He had already disconnected the main powerline, and the spanner was enough to pop open the main outer cover. "Actually, I noticed that you were advertising a room to rent."

"Oh? You're looking for somewhere to stay? - I'd be happy to let you stay there for awhile, if you can get this fixed," she said anxiously, hovering annoyingly around him as he worked. "I would have thought from the look of you that you were Coruscantian."

He gave another weak smile. "Not quite." Small talk was such drudgework! He had forgotten. But he also didn't know when his luck was going to pick up again, so he forced himself to continue talking. "Just got off a shuttle, actually."

"Oh?" It was a curious tone, prompting him to continue.

It took him a moment to decide what he was going to say, and he covered up this moment's thought with acting as if it had been a tricky bolt to pop off. "I have a son who, ah... serves in the Imperial Navy." Close enough.  _Almost_  true, if you tilted your head and squinted. The rest was not going to be so easy, especially with the dark side so close, so tempting. But he stumbled along without it anyway. "He said he was having his wages routed into an account here for me – he didn't take kindly to me staying out there on the moisture farm alone – but when I arrived here, I found the account empty and... well, his name on the missing in action list."

The sympathetic, clucking coo she gave made him breathe a sigh of relief. She had bought it, and that was good enough. "You poor dear. ...Alone? I suppose your wife didn't come with you?"

"She died a long time ago, I'm afraid." To his genuine surprise, the painfully sad, heartbroken smile seemed to stick naturally to his face. It was close to being true, so close that it _was_  truth, how much he still missed her.

"Oh! - Oh, dear." She looked momentarily horrified at the breech of etiquette. "Of course you can stay here for awhile, then. - After a month I might have to ask for some rent, but the water recycler is so important – I try to run a little restaurant every so often out of the front, and we'll be shut down..."

The fix was so simple that almost as soon as she began to explain, he pulled back to examine his handiwork and gave a satisfied nod before turning the main power line back on again. The machine chugged to life, giving a dry rasp before starting to pump water in, purification systems purring like a contented animal. The old woman gaped as he stood, dusting his hands off.

"But – that quickly? - But I just had a technician out here two weeks ago, and he spent five hours..."

"He left a power coupling loose so that it would fail again soon, most likely so you would call him again," he explained, perhaps a little too dryly, as he handed the spanner back to her. Even with the slightly aloof tone, she still seemed almost giddily joyous, looking half about to cry.

"Less than five minutes! - Wonderful, absolutely wonderful, my goodness - " With a bright smile she finally offered her hand out to him. "I'm Elia Vadis. - I suppose I'm your new landlady, now." She laughed at this, the giddiness at his repair still evident. "And you?"

For a long moment, he paused. It was terrifying to be asked his name – even when  _he_  was distinctly unsure of who he was. Part of him wanted to be angry – what right did she have to force him into such a decision? But part of him clung to the first thing that bubbled up and seemed to make sense -

"Anakin," he blurted. "Anakin Naberrie. ...Pleased to meet you."


	6. Begin

"You know, Naberrie," she drawled, "there's something distinctly uncanny about you."

For a long moment he paused, mostly in confusion instead of fear before picking up another wrench. It was just his luck that the town gossip had talked to his new landlady and just so happened to need something fixed as well. He knew that this job, if he did it well – and it was a simple repair to the climate-control system in her apartment – would mean that he would have plenty of business, which was good, because little annoying human necessities were increasingly encroaching on his life. And, he admitted, he was no good to anyone if he died of starvation on the street. Luke still needed him.

"How so?"

"Oh, I don't know, just something uncanny," the woman said, waving a hand. He had already put up with an hour and a half of attempting to make small talk, which was, quite frankly, a special sort of hell, since he no longer had the luxury to either appear socially inept or order her to simply stop. At least the repair was nearly done, he told himself, gritting his teeth.

She paused to adjust her silken, red dress, as if that would help her spill out of it less; she wasn't exactly subtle about her profession, but he supposed that it could have always been worse. "You know, when you're a courtesan, you get to read people real well. More this day and age, though." She sighed, shifting a little to keep her weight mostly on the other foot, always self-conscious about keeping her posture just akimbo enough to be appealing. "You said your boy was in the Imperial Navy?"

He nodded, mouth full with the wrench, holding it while he pried the cover off of the last part of the unit needing repair.

"That's good. The decent ones usually go off to fight, they keep the low-lifes around here, within arm's reach, you know? I always have to be extra careful, these days. - You don't mind if I smoke, do you?" The cigarra and lighter were already in her hands.

"No, go ahead." He tried to content himself by singing out the thoughts in his head, trying to be cheerful in his aggravation:  _Why yes I kriffing do mind, I think my lungs have seen quite enough smoke, thank you_.

The lighter gave a little click and the heavy, spiced smell of the cigarra perfumed the air; it wasn't especially unpleasant. Apparently it was another little luxury the woman was loathe to give up despite her circumstances, just like her rich dresses, even if they were a decade out of date and her girth was overflowing from them. "You know, Naberrie, you probably didn't see much of it, being on Tatooine and all, but sometimes I miss the old days, before the Empire, you know. Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm no traitor -" She gesticulated with the cigarra, drawing a line of smoke in the air. "But things were so different back then."

"And we were all younger." It was a passive-aggressive comment, he knew, but fortunately the woman laughed.

"Exactly! Exactly. Used to have a little flat by the Jedi Temple, back in those days. Those were the best customers, the Jedi, I'll swear on a stack of any holy text you please. Always so polite, even if they came in and went out looking like they were just about to die of shame. Good tippers, too." She exhaled in a sigh; the cigarra smoke drifted around the room once more, and she laughed. "I bet I must be making you uncomfortable, huh, all this talk?"

_Making, no. Made, yes, about two hours ago_ , he thought wryly, but instead shook his head. At least the repair was nearly done.

Her tone dipped into the friendly, gossipy voluptuousness it seemed to be inclined to, and he could tell she was grinning. "Don't worry, Naberrie, I'm not about to try and change your payment around. It's still the credits and the datapad, same as usual." As he put the last cover back on, thankful it had gone more quickly than expected, her tone became more serious. "Besides, I'd never try to pull that on a man like you. That's the uncanniness about you."

For a moment he felt himself tense. It was hard to rationalize the quick, abrupt fear away. She was just a simple whore – what could she really know? But she nodded and smirked as if she had received some insight before shaking her head as he tried to wipe the grease off of his hands.

"You've got a widower's eyes; Vadis was right. That's it. I understand what she was talking about, now." It was actual sympathy in her voice, something he hadn't gotten used to responding to. But the sad smile came easily, so he used it, before turning to flick the machine on. It grumbled but then went back to a steady hum as blessedly cool air started to pour out of the vents, making the house a tolerable temperature instead of what the administration had deemed a pleasant Coruscantian summer. "Finally!" Waddling over to the vent, she stood in the flow of air and gave a long sigh. "Suppose I should add that you're just about magic when it comes to machines, Naberrie. That's an uncanniness I think everyone around here will appreciate." He chuckled softly, and she waved to a pile near the door. "There's the old datapad and the credits we agreed on. Oh, and a pass to the Works nearby. I never use it, but sometimes they give them out, the local scrap company, a bit of charity for us or something – it's to go scavenge what you can. Newest shipment is supposed to be what they dredged up from Bespin. Worth something I suppose to you, since it's all machine bits anyway."

For a long moment he peered at the pass, turning it over in his fingers. There was a definite magnetism to it – fate or the Force or both, he couldn't tell. But it was enough to make his smile pleasant as he thanked her and went. It was even enough to keep his voice soft and relatively kind as he found something close enough to food being sold by a street vendor for dinner, and then spend fifteen minutes in pleasant conversation with Vadis before finally locking himself in his room.

He wouldn't have called it a good mood, really. But it was a new sense of purpose, as he flicked on the datapad and gave a soft sigh, wondering where to start. The blank screen taunted him for a bit until, finally, he drew one line and then another, and by the end of the night the Executor was on the page in detail with everything he hoped the Rebel Alliance would need to know to conquer it.

It was a start.


	7. Vessel Shimenawa

"...injury, mental or physical trauma, sterility, fundamental DNA mutations, and/or liquidization into base atoms. Sign and date here, please."

He took a moment to ruminate on what he had just been told. "That," he said carefully, aware of the understatement, "is quite a disclaimer."

"Standard operating procedure," the bothan said sullenly. "Sign and date.  _Please_." He didn't really blame her for being sullen; she was stuck in a menial job in the Works of Coruscant, where it wasn't yet noon but the air was already hazy with smog. She had slathered on makeup, shaved the fur from her face, and even had an elaborate hairpiece woven into her headfur all for the sake of appearing more human, as was the xenophobic pressure these days. After he scribbled something unrecognizable for his signature, she snatched the datapad from him and let out a heavy sigh. "Right. Fine. ...Let me see your pass. ...All finds with an estimated value over a thousand credits must be reported to the front gate on exit, not sure if I mentioned that." She had, three times over. "Not responsible for injury, and... right. You should be good to go, happy scavenging," the bothan sighed out.

He put the new scarf back over his face as the gate clatteringly rose to let him through. It was later in the day than he would have liked, the acrid smoke ubiquitous to the Works stinging in his eyes, but at least the emergency job that had delayed him gave him the few credits to buy the cheap scarf. Any barrier to keep any of this from getting in his lungs was a good one.

The landscape, pinned in by tall factory buildings as it was, consisted of piles and piles of softly shining grey, and an ethereal scent of ozone still drifted up from the scrap fresh in from Bespin. It was machinery of one sort or another, mostly gas mining equipment that had fallen to meet a bad end, and was on its way to meet a worse one, sorted and melted down to be reborn into parts for the new Empire's ships. Knowing that it was all destined to be part of some TIE fighter, he didn't feel guilty in the least as he sloughed through the dunes of broken metal. All he needed was a relay for the Holonet access box already outfitted in his room so that he stood some chance of sending information to the Alliance...

...And to find whatever was tingling on the edge of his senses as important, in the distance.

He sighed, scrubbing the soot off of a spindly tower of machinery that swayed as the wind picked up. Buffing it to a shine was enough to let him figure out that it would do, and like the rest of the other figures shuffling along the metal hills, he quickly disassembled enough to stuff what he needed into his pockets.

It reminded him far too much of Tatooine – the heat, the soot and grit in the air, the hunched figures following the crest of every hill. But it was at least profitable, every broken machine full of yet another possibility. He hesitated to call it such, but there was a hope in it. Usefulness from uselessness. If nothing else all the gears and connectors and wires were familiar to him – a world that he understood. A world that was nonjudgemental. There was no light or dark, there was just working or not. He could blame the people, certainly, but electricity coursing in pre-designed channels was true neutral.

He was so caught up in raptures that he only paused when something snapped underneath his foot, and the Force seemed to hit him between the eyes as good as a blaster bolt. He winced and shook his head before stepping back and crouching.

A hand – or at least, what used to be a hand – was there, fingers now crushed. It was no longer meaty and full but shriveled, freeze-dried by falling through all the gases of Bespin. The skin had pulled away from the fingernails, taut and sallow in a bloodless sort of way. The crunch it had given seemed more like a branch in the forest than anything that had ever been human. It did not seem real.

The lightsaber it was still grasping was, however, very real and very familiar.

 _Luke's._  For a moment he wondered when in his head it had become Luke's lightsaber when he had been the one to build it, when he knew every connection and circuit. Gently, he crouched down. The wind picked up, tugging on the end of his scarf.

He scooped up the brittle pieces of once-flesh along with the lightsaber, cradling them in his hands like a drink of water from some sacred fountain. Eyes burning with the start of something that might have been tears, he rebuked himself, then paused, and rebuked again:  _You_ should _be crying at this_.

The wind whipped about him more strongly, and he closed his eyes. The rage that had consumed and defined him was past, even if it was directed into self-loathing. Even the yoke of guilt on his shoulders didn't seem quite to fit. He realized he had been holding his breath, and let it out in a shaking sigh. It was picked up and carried by the wind which hummed out a solid note past his ears.

He didn't know what to do.

The doubt was the largest, most certain thing. Now was not the time for some solemn and overdramatic pledge; the idea of using his son's suffering as a symbol of his own promise made his eyebrows furrow in disgust. But what else was there? He couldn't return it, not now. To even stretch out through the Force and ask Luke would be asking for the Emperor to notice such ripples in the fabric of the unseen universe and send an army crashing down on his head.

For a few very long moments there was silence and the own white, blank turmoil of his own thoughts. The wind rustled the dried, shriveled, broken fingers, and he held all of it tightly, as if it were a baby bird fallen from its nest – as if somehow the simple act of clenching it closer to protect it would, by some sympathetic magic, reach out to Luke.

A voice, finally, whispered, half in the wind, but gentle and solemn enough to let him know it was from the Light and not the Dark.  _Take it and use it_.

Practically, it made sense. The growing uneasiness of not being able to defend himself in the open without giving himself away due to lightsaber style would be solved if he simply switched to Jar'Kai, two lightsabers at the ready instead of one. But there was still a numb doubt in his throat.

Sliding the lightsaber out from the hand's grasp, he tucked it into his belt. The fact that it seemed so at home was only a small comfort. Instead, he took off his scarf, carefully wrapping the hand in it like a shroud before setting it on fire, cradled in the crook of some still-shining piece of machinery.


	8. Wraith

For ten minutes at noon, the sun stood overhead where he could see it – and that was only if he stood in one corner. The rest of the scavengers did not seem to be as mesmerized by the slim beam of unfiltered light, but it was a rarity in the Works and even more of a treat to the lower city neighborhood he was forced to call home.

The dust in the air thickened at the same rate more and more newcomers, off from dead-end marginal jobs, swarmed the pile of scrap. He also noticed that those with the means were carrying old, rented DC-15s, carbines and rifles alike. But the air was so acrid that he had to put his hand up to try and block out some of the dust, eyes burning fiercely. He had forgotten what a real coughing fit felt like, to feel the muscles in his back straining. The hours of searching for scrap didn't help the burning aches, either.

The scheduled rainstorm made the air slightly more tolerable, but it robbed them of light, and by what he assumed was only afternoon the landscape had slid into diffused shadows again.

It was a soft and subtle change but the hour started with people uncomfortably close and it ended with him nearly alone. The machinery stood in disarray, picked over and cleaned so that the shells just stood there gleaming softly like white-bleached bones in desert sands. The landscape was oddly familiar, comforting even, at least until there was a shudder and grinding noise as an ancient PA system wailed to life. The actual message was lost in a fuzzy mutter (though he did recognize the lilt as the bothan woman's), but the keening siren made things much more clear.

Truthfully, he waited a little too long to actually run. The threat wasn't visible yet, but the two other figures in the quadrant of the scrapfield bolted immediately. Another echoing, grinding noise – the gate had locked, isolating them – holding something in, he knew immediately, instead of out. One of the two others, a twi'lek girl, wailed and shook the chainlink, and even as he jogged up to the gate he kept his distance. It was simple metal – it would be easy enough to slice through with his lightsaber. Given two minutes to adjust the tiny dials, on camera it might just appear as a compact blowtorch. And the fence wasn't too high to climb, really, though he'd have to be careful of the barbed wire at the top -

"Give it here, give it here!" The twi'lek girl was already shaking out of fear, but her partner – a boy who looked worn out like a threadbare dishrag, even if he couldn't have been more than fifteen – fumbled to hand her the rented DC-15 rifle. "Oh kriff, they're here, they're already here..."

Her terror was almost tangible in the air, and he ran his tongue over his teeth as if trying to sweep the bitter taste of it away. The wail of the sirens dipped in pitch as if the old machinery was catching a breath before it wheezed out another note so steady it seemed to shake. And then he saw them climbing over the far dune of scrap metal, bodies slick and sickly white – a pack of cthon, the rakghouls of Coruscant.

He had been expecting to see them, eventually, so low in the city. His hand confidently wrapped around his lightsaber –  _his_  lightsaber, not Luke's, the other remaining safely tucked in his belt. There was likely no need for a battle, even, he would just vault over the high fence and let the angered, feral beasts soothe their rabid curiosities and then retreat, but -

Her blue hands were shaking and she sobbed. "It's not working," she stated hysterically, trying to aim it even as the boy clutched at her shoulders. "We're going to kriffing die, we're going to  _die_  -"

He put the lightsaber back in his belt.

"Give it here." He was surprised at how calm and quiet his voice was, gentle even. He had forgotten that it could be such a way, after so many years of projecting through the mask and snarling, even if his voice seemed to naturally be so soft.

The twi'lek hesitated, staring at him warily. But one of the pack of cthon clawed down an empty metal casing; it clattered, and she shrieked before shoving the rifle in his hands.

It felt, he realized, as if it belonged there. Not that he was ever inclined to blaster rifles, but if he was, there was definitely a nostalgia in the DC-15s, a wistfulness about the good old days of the Clone Wars. And a firm memory that his fingers were better at finding than his mind. Up, a little to the left, wiggle the cartridge out. Rex's voice at his shoulder –  _these units get a little ornery sometimes, sir, just remove and replace and that usually sorts it out._  A good practical lesson, to make a battle he and the clone troops knew they were going to win more interesting.

 _Level it to your shoulder and –_   _I know how to fire a blaster rifle, thank you, Rex._

The sight was grimy, expectedly so, but now when he pulled the trigger he was rewarded with a laserbolt. It neatly sliced through a cthon's head, splintered off the metal – and sparks, just like that first lucky shot into the line of battle droids.

 _Not bad._ Easy shot, into the chest. Another down.  _It works well, Rex._  Why didn't they fall out of formation? Why didn't they scatter? No matter, easier to shoot.  _Inelegant, but..._ That was the same scream, too, a little whine to it, as if mourning the life that was never really true to begin with, just all false pretenses.  _It does the job._

_Yessir, it does._

The sirens were still wailing as the last cthun fell with a gurgle.

The twi'lek and boy – mute, perhaps, given the way he did not even attempt to speak – both stared, but she immediately started trying to gasp out her thanks even as she still half-sobbed. "Oh Gods, oh my Gods that was – that was kriffing amazing, thank you,  _thank you_ , we'll give you all our scrap and -"

He shook his head before offering the gun back to her, and in a voice that was as much Rex's as his own, explained patiently: "The cartridges stick, sometimes... just remove and replace and that usually sorts it out."

The sirens were still going when the gate clattered open, and he considered that a good enough cue as any to excuse himself. The security staff let him through without a hassle, even with a little admiration. "Thank you for your service," one of them blurted, before looking a little ashamed.

"Pardon?"

"Your service." The guard was flustered, but smiled anyway. "I saw how you handled that blaster, you must be a veteran, uh, sir." He nearly forgot the honorific, tacking it on at the end at the last moment. "So thank you."

He had to take a moment to collect himself enough to find an appropriate expression. "You have nothing to thank me for," he finally said, but only with a smile so the guard could presume it was humility instead of guilt.


	9. This Rain, It Will Continue

The WeatherNet connection must have been thoroughly broken, he thought, because the rainshowers continued to the point where he invested in a waterproof poncho. It was a good purchase: the hood covered his face and the rain was an excuse to wear it.

The streets were crowded enough that he was able to duck into one of the old abandoned factories and use a half-broken Holonet connection that told him all he needed to know.

And the next day he went to the local bar, same as he had been doing for the past two weeks. He knew it was important to be seen as a regular, and besides, that was where most of the odd jobs he was collecting now came from – people who had heard he was handy enough with machinery to hire. And the food, he supposed, wasn't bad, but it wasn't good either. It was just the sort of food one would expect in such a bar. It was not a bar where people went to celebrate wildly, but it was not an entirely morose place either. It was simply full of people who had that synthale to survive a hard, menial job, so they could go home to their small shacks to work another day same as the one they had already lived. It was the sort of bar where the bartender posted a 40% interest rate on all bar tabs because it was the only way to stay in business.

So people saw him there and assumed the old widower was trying to soothe himself and find his wife in the bottom of a glass of cheap ale, and he wondered if they weren't at least a little bit right.

But as he sat at the corner table and picked at the last of his dinner (some sort of starch and some sort of meat, he wasn't sure he could really identify which of each), he stared out at the room with purpose. He had been watching the man for days, and now he was absolutely sure, especially since he was content to let the rest of the people at the bar think that, whenever he lowered his head and closed his eyes to probe the thoughts in the room with the Force, he was getting misty-eyed over some memory. After days of listening it was clear, the man's assertive thoughts standing out like a banner in the room, a bight crimson pennant unfurling on unseen currents. He was the Rebel Alliance's man. Not that there was much for him to do: the people living there were already so thoroughly beaten they did not really remember how to fight, but the promise of unions and slightly less damnably grueling workdays was enough for them to offer tacit support.

As such nobody much cared when he got up and slid into the other man's booth offering a bright smile he had to be very careful to maintain. The other man peered at him suspiciously. "I don't think we've been introduced. ...Anakin Naberrie, right?"

"Exactly." He reached out, took the other man's handshake. Though the other man took the data cards, it was a seamless palming, smoothly transferred from one to the other.

"Selian Vadis." He smirked. "My aunt's your landlady."

"You've already heard an earful, then."

"Only good things, I promise," Selian said, grinning. He wasn't so sure this was true, but it was true enough for him to keep the smile on. The data chips flashed in Selian's hand. "But you're here for business."

"Of course." It was a pleasantly mild answer. He didn't say more but instead knitted his hands on the table.

Selian flipped the data cards in-between his fingers. "I don't know," he said slowly and calmly, "what you're trying to get at, but if you think I'm just going to plug these into my datapad like I'm some fool wanting to get tracked down by the Empire..."

"I expect you to do no such thing," he said pleasantly.

Selian stared a moment. And he smiled. He was starting to appreciate the power of an eerily calm smile over a mask. It unnerved people deeply, and he was appreciating the long moments of the other person trying to figure out why a smile was so unnerving.

"Fine," Selian said, guard up, abrasive out of self-defense. "What do you expect me to do, then?"

"Think carefully, make a decision, and act appropriately." He sipped at the watered-down synthale, glad he had brought his drink. "Don't bother looking up my name. You won't find anything." Selian stared before he explained: "This is a good thing. If I were actually an Imperial I would have forged records going back at least twenty years."

"So you're telling me that you're sloppy,  _and_  you're not who my aunt thinks."

"I am as much as I say I am as you are Vadis' nephew."

The other man gritted his teeth a little. "Fine." The datacards slipped between his fingers and he shuffled them like pazaak cards. "So what's on here, exactly – supposedly?"

"An algorithm for accessing high-security files."

Selian stopped spinning the datacards, still wearing a pleasant smile so that those from a distance could not tell they were doing more than casually chatting, even though his voice was a low growl. "Old man, if you're trying to tell me you're some sort of master slicer..."

"Not a master, just knowledgeable." The younger man frowned deeply, but he kept his expression light and his tone impassive. "Most of the slicing attempts have – I'm guessing – tried to make a new personnel entry, which is a messy process; however, no entries are truly  _deleted_. It's a one-byte change to make that entry  _alive_  instead of  _deceased_ , a much more streamlined process."

The young man spun the datacard between his forefinger and thumb before tapping it on the table. "So, what's the catch?"

"The catch?"

"There's always a catch." He had, truthfully, not been expecting to find the young man so intelligent.

And, of course, he smiled and took a sip of his drink. "No catch," he lied. "I just have a keen interest in helping the Alliance succeed."  _That_ , of course, was the catch. He had done enough scouting to know, absolutely, that even with stealth on his side, the odds of getting his son alive from where Luke was being held were too great.

Besides, as Selian turned the datacards over in his hand, they seemed to belong there. It was an eerie feeling, having the Force acknowledge he was doing something right, or doing what it wanted.

"Besides," he joked morosely, "You know where I live."

Selian snorted out a laugh. "If these send out an alert, I'll see you first thing in the morning with my best blaster, I can promise you that."

He shrugged. "Take them and see if it's of any use to you," he said as nonchalantly as he could. "I'll be here again tomorrow."

He finished his drink, and went home. True to his word, he was there the next day. For a little bit of variety, the unnamed meat and starch on a plate for dinner there was covered in gravy which at least was flavorful, he supposed, if nothing else. He had barely touched his drink when Selian entered the bar, and, looking a little pale and shaken, demandingly slid into the seat opposite him.

"I don't know who the kriff you are," Selian blurted, "but however you got that, we could damn well use more."

He smiled. "Just what I wanted to hear."


	10. Terms and Conditions Apply

The little receiver relay was at least loud enough for him to muffle the buzz of the lightsabers as he practiced; by the time he truly felt comfortable in Jar'kai again, he was sure that the top forty of the week had been thoroughly seared in his brain. He only hoped that he would not automatically pull himself into a battle stance at hearing the first few bars of the latest sugary-sweet pop number and the whining, nasal singing of their twi'lek frontman.

And he slept, and he worked.

 _Work_ , of course, filled all the hours of the day other than the few he spared for sleep (usually slumped over whatever he was working on last that day). There was so much to tell the Alliance: that was work. There were so many requests from those in the neighborhood, too, and he recognized the value of continuing to eat, so: that was work. Even the nightly drink in the bar was work, because it was keeping up appearances he couldn't afford to lose.

That explained why when he snorted awake to the sound of someone banging on his door, he shook himself off in a distinctly ursine manner before admiring the long line of gibberish he had managed to type out on the datapad thanks to an entire night of drooling into it. But the knock persisted, almost hysterical, and so he dragged himself up, running a hand through his hair and putting on his best cheerful face for whoever was at the door even while he already had his lightsaber in his hand.

He was  _not_  expecting the boy – maybe eight, at the oldest, though it was hard to tell, even with his friend by his side – to cut him off before he could even get out a hello. Instead the boy was nearly bawling. "Mr. Naberrie, Mr. Naberrie, please you gotta help me!"

"I, uh -"

The child thrust a box into his hands, wide air holes showing a dull pink rag underneath. There was no time to object, even though he recoiled. Truthfully, he didn't hate children; he was  _terrified_  of them, so unfamiliar, so foreign. If there had been another way, he would have slammed the door shut and tried to forget that the children had ever seen him as approachable. At least he hadn't ever had problems with this before, he mused bitterly; even in the failed stunt of  _Bring Your Offspring to Duty Day_  all of the Imperial Navy knew that you did not introduce your spawn to Darth Vader.

And the child kept talking as he found himself scrambling to support the box. "You  _gotta_  help us, Yannie is real sick and, and me and Jadt -" The small zabrak boy nodded in fierce, open-mouth agreement - "don't have enough money and neither does Jadt's mom or my mom, so we can't take Yannie to a real animal doctor, but you fix things real good -"

"I don't -!"

" - and Yannie's  _real_  sick and we gotta go to Academy and we were gonna take Yannie with us but the teacher says no, and we don't want Yannie to be sick in one of our lockers all sad and alone, we'll pay you all the money we've been saving up we promise -"

"But -!"

"Please please please, Mr. Naberrie,  _please_  -"

And the box was in his hands, and the boy's snapped back to catch him in a hug. Apparently holding the weight of the box alone was enough for the boy, and his zabraki friend burst into smiles. "Thank you so much Mr. Naberrie, thank you lots! We'll be back as soon as we're outta school -"

"We're already late," lamented the zabrak.

"And, and – yeah! Thank you Mr. Naberrie!"

They sprinted away so quickly that he was left holding the box and gaping a little. Whatever objections he had been holding in left him in a long, frustrated sigh. For a long moment he was tempted to quietly put the box out on the street and close the door, but the weight of it became a tangible reminder of the responsibility he had been given. So, gritting his teeth, he stepped back into the apartment, opening the top of the cheap box to peer at what was inside.

"I'm not sure exactly what just happened," he confessed to its contents.

It was a slinket. He knew only because Ahsoka had been obsessed with them when they made their debut – a genetically modified, created pet, a tubular body with long fluffy tail and pointed, near-canine face. Of course, the company had made a critical error in debuting the created creature to the pet market, and what they had intended to be an exclusive product quickly spiralled out of control as the animals were not as neutered as they intended. Now slinkets were ubiquitous, a pet cheap enough for even the children in the miserable slums to save up and afford. The calico pattern on its greying fur was even still in hearts, disgustingly cutesy to the point of being slightly nauseating.

It looked up at him and blinked. And because he was not content with being quiet, he continued speaking. "I suppose you're Yannie."

It burst out into a rumbling purr, a happiness so pure it glimmered brightly in the Force. He shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not sure you want to do that. You don't even know who I am." But it purred hummingly and continued staring up at him with wide, liquid eyes. Sighing, he sat down on the small cot he never used, eying it as if staring at it would make the animal make sense. A terrible, violent thought scurried across his mind: it was so insufferably happy that for an instant he imagined reaching in and snapping its neck – no, twisting its long body just to make it stop purring, to see if it could yelp in pain, or if it would keep on with the same blithe, stupid happiness – just like how on Mustafar he had been sickly curious as much as angry, waiting to see if that warm hope and love would die as he crushed her windpipe -

The wave of nausea nearly made him retch and he had to close his eyes to let it pass. Subconsciously, he reached down to pet the creature. Its fur was soft, and he was pleased to have replacement limbs well-built enough that he could appreciate it. Limply, it leaned into his touch, desperately happy for the attention. It was enough for him to give a resigned sigh, picking it up. No visible injuries, no real sickness... "I don't see anything wrong with you," he mused to the creature, and it responded with another fierce burst of purring. "Just all of this greying fur."

Things seemed to settle into place in his mind, and he looked the animal in the eye. "I know. We're both getting old."

He paused.

"But apparently only one of us is going insane, given how I'm talking to  _you_ ," he finally said with bitter wryness.

The slinket purred, hysterically happy. And he sighed.

There was so much work to be done, still. He did try to put the small creature down, to settle it in the nest of a threadbare rag the boys had made for it, but it clawed at his hand, desperate to be near him out of some pre-programmed need to please humanity. It made him uncomfortable, a little sick, even, as he tried to peel it off of himself. "Please get off," he politely begged, as much as he would allow himself to beg. But it was relentless in its happiness whenever he was holding it, humming out a purr with each labored breath.

It occurred to him, finally, after seeing the slinket's failing strength and heavy breaths, the boys had given him care of the pet because they did not want it to die alone. With a sigh, he managed to cradle it to his chest enough where it was content, tapping at the datapad while finding the other half of the nutritive bar he hadn't remembered to finish yesterday. And the animal settled down as he chewed thoughtfully over the plans of the  _Executor_  he was busy drawing from memory, each of its little breaths rolling out a purr. It was easy to let the animal's happy glow in the Force be pushed from his mind as he tried to remember details that the Alliance could use to bring down his behemoth flagship. Well, not his anymore, he supposed – but his enough that it had been pressed to duty on the outer rim, away from the public eye, after his disappearance. It was a menace the Alliance would encounter someday, if not someday soon.

It was hours later when the sound of knocking pulled him out of his work again. The amount of time startled him; it seemed to have gone by quickly, when he was so focused on his work. And he only noticed it when he pulled away a little to look at the animal in the crook of his arm. It was limp, a little too limp. He brushed the top of its head, between the ears, and it didn't flinch. In fact, it didn't move at all.

Numbly, he realized the little light of happiness that was the slinket, in the Force, had dimmed and finally died, and he hadn't even noticed.

The knock at the door became a little more urgent, and he slowly got up, knowing that it had to be answered and leaving the solemnly horrific thought to develop in his thoughts like a swiftly growing black bruise. The boys both burst into tears, knowing immediately what had happened; the zabraki tried to stutter out something thanking him for watching after the animal anyway.

And he was terrified, because he had no idea of what to say, much less of what to say to a child. What to tell them – that he had already learned years ago death was something he couldn't fix, couldn't prevent, even after being sold a spiritual snake-oil cure? Wasn't it something they already knew, the way they were quietly fighting over who got to hold the corpse of the creature, hugging and sobbing over it as if this had some mystic power to bring it back? (And what if it did, and why hadn't he ever tried to do so with Padmé?)

It still gave him no ideas of what to say.

"I'm sorry," he finally managed in a voice so gentle and small it was unlike him before reaching out, guiding the boys back to the residential block that he had luckily guessed was their home. Both of them cried and didn't truly answer him. And when the zabraki mother tried to give him a few credits for his trouble, he refused.


	11. Abort, Retry, Fail?

The zabraki woman insisted on trying to give him a few credits and on the fifth offer, he finally felt obligated to accept so he could be on his way without seeming ungrateful.

And he hurried back to the apartment to close the door behind him, slide down to sit on the floor, and wonder why he had hurried.

There was no shadowy darkness or dramatic thunderstorms; the eighteen-minute rainshower was downright pleasant, just as WeatherNet had scheduled it to be. The physical world was not cooperating with the numb despair that had settled over him. It made it that much easier to retreat into himself, to block out the noise of the machinery rattling outside his window or the ever-present clamor of the residents of the slums.

He hadn't noticed.

It wasn't a dramatic at all; it was a slow creeping finally coming to fruition, floorboards of an ancient house finally rotting through to buckle and break. It was a natural mental entropy, and so when he realized what had happened, it was already too late to fight it.

_He hadn't noticed._

That was his blind spot, it had always been his blind spot. He didn't need the small voice in the back of his head to busily remind him. The creature had just been a pet, but it was so bright in the Force, too stupid to do anything but be loving. Too stupid, too beautiful, too virtuous? He couldn't tell anymore: all he knew is that he was blind to it.

And of course, every time he berated himself for being so foolish as to find something of Padmé in a child's pet, he just knew more solidly that it was the same sort of blindness that had prevented him from seeing her desperate, foolish, unending love, and how it flickered and died with her.

The shadows ambled a little further on the floor before becoming diffused and soft again, and his thoughts turned to Luke again. It was too dangerous to shout into the Force, to scream for Luke to answer; he knew that Palpatine would be quite happy to step in. Some of his neighbors would likely be killed in the shootout and he was certain that he'd be the talk of the gossips for quite awhile; he was also just as certain that he wouldn't leave Coruscant alive. But he was desperate for some small sign that Luke was still alive. It would have been just like his son, he thought – perhaps being exceedingly stupid as a young man was inherited – to use the light side of the Force to purify confusion and anger into simple, foolish, unconditional love...

Perhaps he just hadn't noticed yet, if that light had been snuffed out as well.

And truly (the voice whispered, but not from the darkness; the room was still well-lit, without many shadows – it came from himself, terrifyingly so)... And truly, what was the point even in trying? It would be months – years, perhaps, more likely – before he could truly be in any position to save his son. There would be battles, the slow encroaching fungus of reconquering territories, the murky intelligence he would have to wade through... and that assumed that the Emperor made a critical error and left Luke where he could be saved. He reminded himself that he knew the bastard far too well, now; the Emperor would clutch his new prize closely and fight to keep it. It was impossible.

A soft glow caught the corner of his eye, but the numbness kept him from turning his head. "Anakin," an unfortunately familiar voice whispered. " _Anakin_."

He paused to unstick his mouth, half drawling his answer. "I think you've got the wrong apartment, old man."

"Anakin." A paternal, damning disappointment rang in the voice, alongside exasperated amusement. "It is not impossible." The ghostly figure crouched before him, trying to catch his eye, and he quickly glanced away, fixating on a pile of spare parts in the corner.

"I'm not sure what I've done to be honored with this lecture." Sarcasm was an easy, cheap defense, all fluff and no substance. It just made him feel more vulnerable, and he knew that his old master saw straight through it.

But it still made Obi-Wan chuckle dryly under his breath. "Nothing is impossible with the Force. You know this, Anakin."

He said nothing for a moment, his mouth drawing into a thin line of a frown. "It will be difficult."

"Yes, it will," Obi-Wan said calmly and pleasantly, as if they were discussing a jog through a swamp instead of intergalactic warfare.

A sigh rolled out of him through his nose, half a snort; the Force ghost straightened and gazed around the room, not trying to meet his eyes again. It was a politeness, a way to generate some distance for the question Obi-Wan knew he was about to ask.

He was still unused to his voice being so small, so pathetically weak. But he spoke anyway. "I realize I am in... no position to ask a favor. But -"

"I will go to him," the ghost interrupted calmly, smiling. "Luke still lives, Anakin. It is not as impossible as you would like to think."

He was still trying to find the words for some sort of thanks that would allow him to save face when Obi-Wan smiled disarmingly. "Besides, there is no need to ask for favors between brothers." He flinched as if he had been struck, but the blue glow was gone and Obi-Wan was no longer there to indignantly correct. He was alone.

A public shuttlecraft swooped low enough to rattle the walls, and another shouted argument started up outside. The sun was just barely starting to dim, but it still filled the apartment with a pleasant light. Slowly, he stood, picking up the datapad with a sense of exhausted duty to continue telling the Rebel Alliance anything he thought would be useful.


	12. Comedic Timing

The office chair wheezed around in circles as it spun slowly, finally coming to a stop. She extended a foot to plant it against the side of the steel security desk before kicking off, like a swimmer at the side of a pool, and the office chair spun back around the opposite way. The beige grey ceiling's pattern turning into circular streaks was only marginally more interesting than what she was supposed to be looking at.

Mara Jade was bored.

That was, she thought, a massive understatement. She had been bored for months, and on Coruscant there was not even the option of doing something to harass an underling and cause an incident of interest.

With a long sigh, she sat up to stare dully at the screen. Luke Skywalker was, as usual, slumped in the corner of his cell, eyes dazed and unfocused. The increased dose of the serum was starting to make him drool, but anything less and the Emperor decided he had too much autonomy. And, of course, to say Mara was bitter about this was like saying Tatooine had a wee bit of sand.

Not that she was one to celebrate prematurely, she reminded herself. Of course when the news came that Vader had been ambushed while in his personal fighter was delicious, and she had smiled, but she had refrained from letting herself gloat until his name was officially moved to the Missing In Action, Presumed Dead list. She had waited patiently, so patiently, for the Emperor to finally give her the promotion that she felt had been hers for years. And she waited. Whatever hope she had that being Skywalker's babysitter was a temporary trial had long since faded. It was drudgery. Watching paint dry would have been more interesting. Even playing sabacc against the computer had completely lost any appeal, she'd done it so much. Oh, at first, it had been all right to stare at him. He looked as she remembered him from Tatooine, when he had been a pleasantly interesting prey, charmingly competent (but not  _good_ ) with his lightsaber or the Force. As he sat drugged out of his mind, when she was initially so bored, he was even still handsome enough for her to consider using him simply because it'd be something to do.

But now his cheeks were sunken, his skin pale and greying, and dark circles hung underneath his eyes (never mind that pathetic, slackjawed expression). Whatever charm the farmboy once had was now neatly eradicated. She was disgusted. And very bored.

She had spent fifteen minutes trying to get her hair into the most complicated braid she could think of, using only the Force (because in her desperation it had seemed like something barely approaching fun), when a small sound made her jump. Frowning, she peered at the screen, and the output of the many cameras in Skywalker's cell. The sound came again from the tinny speaker. It was, perhaps, a laugh – a very small, gurgling sort of one. And he was... smiling?

Laughter, and  _smiling?_  That was certainly all wrong. With over-eager excitement, she shook out her hair, bounding up to nearly skip down the hall in excitement. Something was actually happening! Even if it was a minor incident, at least it broke up the monotony.

The cell doors opened with a hiss and she crossed her arms, gleeful to finally have the chance to look her most impressively furious. " _What_  is going on in here?"

It took Luke Skywalker a few seconds to actually look at her, his gaze not quite as dull and distant as she remembered. The smile slid off of his face. But she couldn't see the other figure standing in the room. She especially could not see how Obi-Wan grinned, and she was not aware of how the Force ghost whispered a joke only Luke could hear. It was, of course, a joke at her expense. But it was what Luke needed to hear, just as how the last hour had been spent with Obi-Wan bringing the boy hope and a small bit of entertainment through old war-stories and wisdom.

The joke hit true and after a few seconds for his sluggish, drugged brain to process it, Luke burst into wheezing laughter.

"What is it?" Her eyebrows knit in frustration, and her nostrils flared in a snort. " _What is going on_ , Skywalker?"

Kenobi made another comment she did not see or hear, and Luke's wheezy laughter redoubled. It was such a pure and simple delight, to laugh at a joke after months of torture, that Mara found herself baring her teeth at how much the light side of the Force permeated the room. It was like an obnoxious, over-applied perfume; she half expected to start sneezing. Unfortunately, she did finally get the idea that there was a joke she was not in on.

"Fine.  _Fine_. We can fix this," she huffed, glancing back to the ample cabinet of torture devices that were not actually supposed to be provided for her use. But she felt justified in bending the rules. The smile slid off of Skywalker's face again.

Her night was much more interesting, but she did not understand by what power Luke remained so stoic through it all.


	13. Eminence Front

Truthfully, Leia didn't mind the late night shift. It wasn't as if she was going to get any sleep anyway, though she did occasionally try. By the time she heard the small beeping of the comlink, she had focused on taking deep and slow breaths for so long that it was almost as good as taking a nap. She was certainly still yawning when she made her way down the dimly-lit corridors, darkened in a false sense of night-time onboard the massive spaceship.

"It's four-thirty in the morning, Gael, this had better be interesting if nothing else."

The bothan looked up at her with wide eyes and nodded frantically. "Senator Organa! I didn't know a senior staff would respond so quickly – but it is interesting, very interesting."

"Enough to not wait until the morning?" She stifled another yawn and made her way to an empty chair. The intelligence room was usually busy with the full staff working at all the terminals, but now most of the screens were dim, save for the one the bothan was busy tapping away at. Gael looked more flustered than she remembered him, Leia had to admit: while he thought she wasn't looking, he licked at his fingertips and tried to pat down some of his fur where it had frizzled in excitement or fear.

"Yes, definitely. - I'll have a full report on Mon Mothma's desk in the morning, but..." He reached up to paw at his mane again, looking overwhelmed. "It's important – important enough that I need to make sure you're seeing what I'm seeing."

She frowned, eyebrows knitting, but politely said nothing. Instead, a gentle sweep of her hand indicated that she wished for him to continue.

"I'm not sure how much General Cracken has told you. But there's an agent in Coruscant we've been watching – blind approach, don't know for sure if he's toxic – ah, an Imperial agent, I mean." The bothan fumbled with a data disc, taking two tries to pick it up before inserting it into the holovid player. "But it's good intel.  _Excellent_  intel. If he's toxic, he's stupid, it's the Empire handing us victories on silver platters. We've worked at having this confirmed but it was information crucial in landing us the latest few victories..."

His claw clicked against the keyboard as he called up the data disc's information, and Leia's eyes widened. Images flickered by quickly, one after the other at a frantic pace, and scrolling text became a blur. Her mouth dropped open slightly in amazement.  _Now_ , certainly, Leia was awake. "All of that so far? That is... quite impressive."

"That was only last week's transmission," the bothan said almost giddily. " _This_  is all the intel he's handed over to us so far."

The holoscreens around the room blazed with light. Diagrams and text became a steady stream of information, overwhelming, before finally coming to a pause. Leia gaped more than politely, turning in her chair to see it all. Fortunately, the bothan continued talking while she was left speechless.

"Quite a lot of it has been pulled with Imperial access codes; either he's a damn good slicer or - "

"Or he's a traitor," Leia interrupted, tone distant and nearly dreamy.

"Yes, exactly. The agent on Coruscant has only been able to provide us a little information; he's too smart to hand over a corneal scan. But we received this with the last batch..."

The screens dimmed again to allow the main holoprojector to light up with a complex diagram that shone like a jewel in an ornate setting. By now the bothan's fur had fluffed again in excitement, but he didn't seem to realize it, or care, as pleased to be flaunting what he knew to a superior as he was to be reveling in the fact that the Alliance was gaining a crucial edge. "This diagram is of the  _Executor_ , and – this is what's simply amazing, well, the first bit anyway – it's hand-drawn. The author's switched to his non-dominant hand, here -" He gestured at where part of the diagram had been captioned - "so handwriting analysis is harder but not inconclusive. It matches none of the Moffs we have on record." Leia's eyebrows rose, and the bothan saw how her mouth was curling to ask what the point of this all was. "Wait, wait, it gets better!"

She frowned a little poutingly, but kept quiet out of politeness as his claws lightly clacked against the keyboard. "The description the operative's given us hasn't been too useful – he's tall, solidly built, blue eyes, brown hair going to grey, late forties to early fifties – nothing spectacular – but apparently he has a few identifying scars, one near his eye, and that was enough to match him to this captured security footage – the line to the Imperial data-box was cut but  _not_  to our receiver..." The  _Executor_  disappeared from sight before the projector pulled up another video.

Even though his face was entirely foreign, a solid chill ran through her. She wasn't sure if it was dread, or surprise, or something else entirely, but the blood in her veins flashed to ice, then to electric fire. The video was grainy enough for her to make out  _something_  beyond just the dingy alleyway, and what was going on there. A man – solidly built, yes, but stumbling as if woozy and dizzied – dashed in, found himself caught in the dead end. Her own gut physical reaction made slightly more sense to herself as he pulled out a lightsaber, the dull red barely visible in the poor quality recording. There was something damnably familiar about every stroke, the lazy sort of finesse that seemed as effortless as it was deadly as he deflected each blaster bolt from the incoming stormtroopers.

"So that's our operative," she said, half to herself. But the bothan nodded enthusiastically.

"There's just enough to run an analysis – the identifying scar on the eye matches, at least. But this -" He took a deep breath as if to help keep himself calm. " _This_  is the analysis that has been running for the last three days, Senator."

"This is what you called me here for?" Her voice was as politely peevish as she would allow, trying to get him to hurry up and get to the point.

"Yes, yes, exactly! - It's enough data to run a kinetics analysis, and cross-reference that with those already in the database... standard procedure, when we can, to do them on formidable enemies so that typical behaviors can be accounted for in strategy." This time he actually seemed to catch Leia's calm glare, and get the point to hurry up. "Ah – yes, well – the analysis finished, and the match it's brought up is a kinetics analysis done on recovered security tapes at the battle of Hoth..."

A second hologram flashed onto screen, blue next to green. The quality of the tape was better, this time, thanks only to whichever unlucky operative had been sent to dig them out of the snow-covered rubble after the Empire had gone. But it was obviously from the moments before the very last soldiers made their way out in the evacuation. An explosion, the small camera rocked even on its mount, and a terrifyingly familiar figure strode through the rubble, all shining black armor and billowing cape – Darth Vader. Her throat constricted a little more when she realized why this tape had been recovered: beyond the tape's view was a barricade where the last few soldiers were holding out, Mon Mothma's son among them.

Vader reached for his lightsaber, and the other hologram began to play.

It was the same flourish, the same confidently easy stance. It was the same easy sweeps to bat away the blaster bolts. Even if the man in the alleyway held himself differently, dizzied and unsure, his body seemed to know better than the rest of him. It was a natural, deadly grace, one and the same.

Fortunately, the bothan was happy to talk even when she found she could not.

"The analysis only puts it at a fifty-three percent match, but constructing models based off of the holovids instead of directly comparing the holovids themselves ups this to an eighty-seven percent match... a chroma analysis of the lightsaber blade color, when corrected, puts the vid from two months ago as 3% more blue, well within the regular limits of error. Handwriting samples have been harder to place so little analysis has been done. But I suppose what I'm really attempting to say is..."

"It's a conclusive match," Leia summarized, her voice nearly lost in a sigh as she had to remind herself to stop holding her breath.

"Yes – yes, that's it exactly." He gulped softly. "It's very... it's important news. It will be up to Mon Mothma what to do with the information, of course, but the statistics are so significant..." He slowly talked himself into silence, looking a little worried, peering at Leia and waiting to see any more reaction from her.

But her expression of calm was one she had been practicing as long as she could remember, and it was useful to wear it as she tried to clear her throat and stop her dizzy thoughts from spinning harder. "Thank you, Gael. This is very... exciting and important news. I expect that General Cracken will want to be awoken to hear it." She cleared her throat again.

"Until then, I'd like a copy of the analyses for myself. And tell General Cracken, when he's here, to contact me. I would," she said slowly, making the bothan's eyes widen in surprise, "very much appreciate his guidance on my upcoming trip to Coruscant."

"Coruscant? But – Senator! You're not an agent," he almost laughed, more nervous than finding humor in the situation. "Besides, you have a diplomatic talk scheduled – not a trip to Coruscant -"

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

That time, he didn't argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm slowly uploading chapters onto here after some minor proofreading and tweaking. There are many chapters to come.


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